


Crouched

by Neighbourhoodcat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hair Kink, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Kylo is a puppy (not literally though), Possessive Behavior, Rey is a university student, She never told him her name, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-09-15 11:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9234062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neighbourhoodcat/pseuds/Neighbourhoodcat
Summary: Oh, but she could keep him, she contemplated.Did she?Yes.But he would have to promise to behave. To be good. To be obedient.





	1. Chapter 1

Rey smelled him before she saw him. Pungent. Salty. Greasy. Like a wet dog. His left side curled up against the communal recycling bin of her apartment complex. Huddled underneath a drowned, flatten cardboard box that acted as protection against the wet clouds. While only his backside was presented to her she could see that his makeshift umbrella was useless. Everything was damp. Soaked. Doused.

 

 _Hmm_.

 

She stalked closer. One. Two. Three steps. Then he was within arm’s length. She crouched down, behind him, until the front of her thighs touched her chest. The ends of his hair curled, touching his neck, just grazing the top of his sweater. Black hair. Black sweater.

 

Her right arm unwrapped itself from around her legs and lifted away and towards him. Close. Closer. There. The tips of her four fingers grazed the only bit of skin that wasn’t covered in black. His neck was cold. He made a whining noise from the back of his throat. She dropped her stretched arm and wrapped it back around her legs. His breaths were heavy and short. She shuffled, still in her crouched position, until she faced his right side. His head was drooped towards his chest, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his torso, and his hands fisted into his sweater. He cocooned himself. Tensed.

 

The tip of his nose was visible from this angle. It was shiny from the rain. She reached out again. This time, only her pointer finger made contact with the side of his nose. He exhaled through his nose. Loudly. She ignored it. Her hand uncoiled until another finger. Two. Three. Four fingers in total stretched out. She used them to flutter over his closed eyelids. Then used her whole hand to cup his cheek.

 

_Cold. Slippery. Clammy._

 

Her thumb swept away the liquid tracks that the rain left behind. Like she was wiping away tears. He panted. Turned his head to make sure that every bit of her hand was in contact with his face. Pushed into her hand. He moaned. A corner of his lip twitched, just barely.

 

He was just like Ol’ Ren, the Afghan Hound that her grandfather had kept as a companion when she was a child and had still lived in England. The stranger’s long, silk-like black hair clumped just like Ol’ Ren’s coat did after his monthly baths. The stranger whined just like how Ol’ Ren whined the first time she petted the top of his head. That rainy day when her grandfather first introduced her to the puppy he had found in a waterlogged cardboard box. The puppy had slept on her lap that same night, curled into himself. Fell asleep while she brushed his coat. Until it shined.

 

She stared. Once. Twice. Three seconds. Removed her hand from his cheek, he whined again, and moved both hands under his armpits. He felt broad, solid under her palms. Looked well fed. Cared for. He must have had a home. Somewhere.

_Come on, now. Up._

 

She tried to lift him up. He pawed at her sternum, weakly. She tried again. This time he made the motion to swipe her face. Missed. She shifted until her lips hovered over his right ear.

 

"Let’s get you warmed up. Then we’ll get you back home," she whispered to him.

 

He responded by placing his chin on her shoulder. Allowed it rest there. She pushed with her knees. He cooperated by following after her. The cardboard box fell to the ground, barely making a sound. His shield left forgotten on the ground. She shifted, navigated, and nudged his body around hers until she acted as a human crutch. They swayed. She steadied them.

 

He was tall in height even to her above average stature. She prodded his side, pushed, supported them to the rear entrance of her apartment complex. They climbed. One. Two. Three flights. Unit 304. It proved to be difficult to hold him up while she unlocked the door, and shoved them in.

 

In her tiny but warm apartment, and their sides pressed against each other, she realized that they were both soaked thoroughly. She guided them to the floor until his back rested against the wall next to her front door. Removed both their shoes. He wore black socks. Stood up, stepped back, and retreated to her bedroom. Changed out of her drenched clothes and into a grey sweater with her school’s crest in the front and some fleece-lined leggings. Ventured into her bathroom to run a white towel through her damp hair. She decided that it was better to leave her hair in its usual three-bun style. Then grabbed one of her grandfather’s old sweaters and the towel she just used (it was her only towel). Her mind tugged at her until she grabbed her hairbrush as a last minute thought before returning to the stranger. He shook and shivered. But he looked better. She squatted until she was at eye level to him. She reached for the bottom hem of his sweater. He swatted at her forearm. He whined, again.

 

_Please, Ren, you’ll catch your death if you stay in this._

 

He exhaled, loudly, dropped his arms to his sides. She quickly pulled the sweater off his body, unbuttoned his button-up, and peeled off the undershirt. It fell into a pile of black fabric beside them. Then tugged the fresh, dry grey sweater over his body. He dwarfed the sweater, the sleeves too short and shoulders tight. The tops of his trousers were relatively dry, thanks to his curled position earlier. But it wouldn’t do. She reached for his belt. Hesitated. Glanced at his face. His eyes were still shut. She hadn’t seen his eyes once yet. Were they also black like the rest of him? She closed her eyes. For modesty. Her hands methodically removed his belt and his damp trousers. It joined the pool of black beside them. When she opened her eyes she almost laughed when she realized that his boxer-briefs were black also. Almost.

 

She grabbed the towel, patted him dry. Attempted to squeeze the rain out of his hair. He signed with contentment. Tossed the towel to the same pile and reached for the hairbrush. With her hands, one holding with the brush and one free, she placed her hands under his armpits again. He used his palms to push back behind him and against the wall to help steady his rise. With their chests inches apart from each other she guided him closer to her couch. One. Two. Three steps. He was now standing with his own two feet. She removed all contact. He opened his eyes.

 

 _They’re brown, almost black. Shiny just like how Ol’ Ren’s were_.

 

She almost laughed. Almost. She still missed the dog that died years ago. So she sat down first, up against the arm of the couch, her left hand, gripped with the brush, resting on the top of it. With her other hand she patted the seat cushion to the right of her. He stared at the cushion. Or was it her hand. She stilled. One. Two. Three moments passed. He made that whining noise again, the one that came so easily to him. Then immediately climbed onto her three-seater couch so that his head rested on her lap, face towards her stomach, arms curled to his chest, legs bent, and feet pressed against the other arm of the couch. He placed the hand, her hand that was just patting the cushion seconds ago, onto the top of his shoulder. The shoulder that pointed to the ceiling and sky above. She kept her body rigid and her arms stiff beside her. Paused. He continued to stare blankly at her stomach.

 

Then he made an irritable noise. Dug his nose until it pressed slightly into the fabric of her sweater. He inhaled, deeply. Quietly. He then moved the hand that was on his shoulder again to rest on the side of his head. The bottom of her wrist skimmed the top of his ear. He used his much larger hand to guide her fingers through his hair. She felt a tug in her head again. And then.

 

_Oh._

 

She understood. He wanted to be brushed. Brushed like how Ol’ Ren loved to be brushed. Brushed until it shined. He dropped his hand back against his chest. With her one hand still raked through his hair, she brushed the back of his head with her hairbrush. He made a choked moan-like noise. Then hummed. Her body relaxed almost involuntarily. After a moment, so did his.

 

After every inch of his scalp was brushed thoroughly she paused. She studied him now that most of his hair was brushed away from his face. His long face was decorated with sporadic moles. His brow bone sharp. His nose sculpted and prominent. His breathing had slowed and steadied. Content. He must have fallen asleep, she concluded.

 

She felt sleepy herself. Like how her legs were asleep under his head. Between the couch and his head. Like she was trapped. Her heart picked up. Her mind cleared. She hated feeling imprisoned. Shifted. Tried to move. But he burrowed his nose deeper into her sweater-clad stomach until she could feel the tip of his nose pressed against her bellybutton. Her mind felt clouded again. She willed herself to calm down. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. He slipped one of his hands around her back so that it was wedged between the front of the couch and her back. It moved in lazy semi-circles, trying to soothe her. But now her torso was trapped between his nose and right palm. She didn’t move. She couldn’t move.

 

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

 

This had to be payback for when she touched his neck, nose, eyelids, cheek outside. Had to be. He was everywhere now. She was not used to warmth of another. Suddenly, he growled in his sleep. Actually growled.

 

_Like how Ol’ Ren growled when she didn’t understand him._

 

But this stranger isn’t Ol’ Ren. She couldn't keep him like how she kept Ol’ Ren. Fed him. Cared for him. Allowed him sleep at the foot of her bed to protect her from the monsters. No, she couldn’t. People aren’t pets.

 

_He needs to leave. Now._

 

But then, immediately, her mind hazed over. More intensely this time. Heavy. Lethargic. The only thing that made sense to her was to do was to focus on the one thing she could do. So she continued to brush his hair. Until it shined.

 

_But in the morning, you go._

 

She thought to herself.

 

Oh, but she could keep him, she contemplated.

 

_Did she?_

 

_Yes._

 

But he would have to promise to behave. To be good. To be obedient.

 

_I’ll be a good Ren. I promise, Rey._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The italics are meant to be slightly confusing (no clarification of whose thoughts they belong to) because #inappropriateuseoftheforce. Ha.

Rey woke up with her body up against the arm of the couch. Legs tucked and knees up, they touched her chest. One arm draped around her shins. The other cupped her cheek, numbed. She lifted her eyes and looked straight. Saw black. One. Two. Three blinks. Wrong. Not black. But the night. Some light filtered in from her windows. Her eyes adjusted until she could see the ugly, peeling wallpaper on the wall across.

 

But last time she was awake it was mid-afternoon. She forgot something. Someone. Cold. All black. Hairy. The last thing she did before falling asleep was-

 

_Oh._

 

She looked down the length of the couch. Empty. Turned her neck straight again. There. Below her line of sight. Tilted her head down. Farther. Onto the floor in front of the couch. Body turned toward her. His head tilted downward. She could only saw his crown. His backside blanketed by the worn, shaggy black throw blanket she had tossed off earlier this morning. Or yesterday, now.

 

His long legs crossed, elbows placed on the seat cushion where her body was curled. On either side of her bowed up body. His upper body caged her in. She couldn’t move without making contact. With him. He hummed. Then moved one of the walls of her cage, his right hand, and wrapped it around her ankles so that both were gathered. Pushed together in his hand and confined. Bound by his palm, fingers, and thumb. Squeezed. Because he could. His forefinger twitched against the outside of one of her ankles. Against the sliver of flesh not covered. He groaned.

 

_Gratified. Pleased._

_Kriffing weirdo._

 

He grunted. Like he took offense. Instead he took action. Pushed the finger that had twitched and moved it up. Pass her ankle. Slipped it under the cuff of her leggings. Until that finger was fully covered by fabric while the rest of his hand rested against and around the top of her ankle. She remained stagnant until her legs lost sensation. Numbed from trying to keep still. Then her stomach grumbled. She had also forgotten to eat dinner. Again.

 

He moved. Took his arms off and away from her. Straightened his back and rolled his shoulders until the blanket fell off. Reached for her again. Both hands, this time. Each one fisted an ankle of hers. Traced her achilles tendon first before he pulled. Pulled until the arches of her feet each cuddled the dip where his hipbones slopped into thighs. She was dragged forward. Until only her bottom was entirely on the couch seat. She leaned back. Pressed her upper back against the solid front of the couch. Grounded her hands into the seat cushion. Used them to steady her.

 

He ran his hands up her calves. Slowly. Then down. With purpose. Fingers massaged and knead the skin and muscle beneath. Until she gained feeling again. Until he was sure she could stand on her own two feet. But just in case. He scouted back until he touched the side of her savaged coffee table. Away from the couch. Released her legs and stood up tall and straight. But tilted his head. She never left his sight. She blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Then, bent at the waist, he wrapped each of his hands under her armpits.

 

_Up._

She almost laughed. Almost. She braced herself against his shoulders. Rose up. Up. Until her eyes were inches away from the collar of her grandfather’s old grey sweater. The collar she ran her fingers along whenever she wore it. She almost did again. She dropped her arms back down to her sides instead. Left some room for him to remove his hands from under her armpits.

 

He didn’t. She continued to stare at his collar.

 

So she raised her hands up towards his. She wanted his hands off of her. But he was faster. He turned 90 degrees to his right. Spun her around too. Her back almost touched his chest. So he lowered his hands until they curled around her waist. His thumbs pressed into her back, palms nestled, fingers dug into her front. Once. Twice. Three seconds passed. He was close enough that she heard him sigh quietly. His breath tickled the top of her head. He inhaled. She exhaled. Repeat.

 

He prodded her right heel with the tip of his right foot. Did it again. Again. She stepped forward with her right foot. He repeated his actions but with her left heel. She stepped again. Again. And again. Until they stood at the threshold of her tiny kitchen. She reached with her right hand for the light switch on the wall. But his right hand left her waist and followed her outstretched hand. His hand grabbed hers. He whined.

 

_Fine._

 

She pulled her hand out of his and rested it on the countertop instead. She felt his hand return to her waist.

 

_Right. Okay._

 

Ol’ Ren could see a lot better than humans could in dim light. She thought about the time she almost tripped over him when she tried to grab herself a glass of water at night but he moved, danced, around with ease at night. Skilled. But that was a while ago. Years.

 

Her stomach growled again. Wanted attention. Needed attention. So she stepped into her kitchen. He released her waist from his greedy paws. She reached for her almost empty box of cereal. The only food she had left in her apartment. She ran out of milk two days ago. So she walked back. Back to the room that was her living and dining room. Back to her couch. The one that was probably older than her. Back to her coffee table. The first piece of furniture she had picked after she aged out of the system.

 

Back to where he stood in the space between her couch and her table. She could just make out his eyes. They reflected the bit of light that came in through her windows. Through the night. She hesitated. He looked bigger now that she could see all of him. Broader. Wider. More solid. Like a creature. Even if he looked sort of funny in his too small grey sweater. And boxer-briefs and socks that did look ridiculous in his current state.

 

So she took a step back. He took a step forward. She took another and so did he. Again. Until her bottom tapped against her stove, left hand tightened around the cereal box, and her right hand reaching behind her. Looking for a weapon. Anything.

 

_Please._

 

He crouched down. Towards the floor. The tops of his thighs pressed up against his chest. His arms wrapped around this bent legs. Her hand paused. Eyes followed. He cocooned within himself. Tried to make him small. Smaller. Like a harmless puppy. Whined again.

 

There. That tug again. Her mind hummed. Body relaxed.

 

_Like Ren._

 

He reminded her so much of when Ol’ Ren was a puppy. His shiny black hair. Nervous nature. She wanted to gather him up and nestle him into her chest. So that her chin would rest on the top of his head. Could still fit in her arms. Her mind pulsed. Oh, she wanted to do exactly that. No. She needed to.

 

So she walked back. Confident. Towards the stranger. One hand still held the cereal box. Right foot in front of the left. Left foot in front of the right. Repeat. Then she stood within arm’s length of him.

 

He watched her like a predator would watch his prey. Primitive, almost. No. He observed her with awe. With his head lifted and his mouth parted. Barely. He unravelled his arms from around his legs. Dropped to his knees. Softly. Reached up. Up. Until his hands found home on her waist again. Then pushed up and forward until the side of his face was flushed against her stomach. Like how Ol’ Ren would stand on his hind legs and greet her (every day) with his snout pressed into her stomach, eyes shining, barking. Her small welcoming party. She almost laughed. Almost.

 

The stranger moved both hands towards her back. Pulled her into his caress. Hungry. Starved.

 

Her stomach thundered this time. He paused his fondling of her mid-section. He exhaled through his nose, audibly. Irritable little puppy. Always needed the attention to be on him. But no. So he pushed her toward the couch. She let herself fall softly backwards. She, for the second time today, was back on the couch while he caged her in. Annoyance flared within her.

 

But he recognized that. And fixed it. Remedied it. Just like how Ol’ Ren knew when to make her laugh. How to turn her frown into a smile. Let her just hold him when she needed an anchor. She still missed the dog that died years ago.

 

The stranger took away the cereal box that she’d held onto as if her life depended on it. He placed it on the table behind him.

 

Then rose from his kneed position. Just a bit. Enough. Manipulated and contorted his body until his body joined hers on the couch. The left side of his upper body curled onto her chest. His bottom cushioned by her thighs. His legs bent at the knee and toes pushed into the dip where the middle seat cushion ended and the third seat cushion started. His knees relaxed against the couch’s back cushions. His left hip dug into her stomach. His left shoulder touched the couch, in the space between her right ear and shoulder. He was too tall for her to rest her chin on the top of his head. But his nose pressed into her right temple. He inhaled. Hummed. Exhaled. She felt it dance across her cheekbone.

 

_Close. Just like how Ren used to relax on her lap. Perfect._

 

He seized her hands and wrapped them around his torso. So that one of her palms rested against his stomach and the other rested on top of that. When she attempted to uncoil her arms he snatched her wrists and made her fist the bottom hem of his sweater. Her hands could not move again. Would not move again. He made sure of that.

 

Placed his left hand to cover both of hers. Then he raised his other arm and extended up. To cuddle the side of her neck. His palm warmed her. His fingers burrowed themselves into the bottom of her scalp. Twisted them into her hair. Pulled a little. Just because he could. His thumb rested on the front of her throat so he could feel each nervous swallow she took. He stared at her face.

 

One. Two. Three moments passed.

 

Her stomach howled. She would have been embarrassed if it wasn’t something she had become accustomed to. But he wasn’t. He reluctantly drew his hand from around her neck and stretched. Reached towards the table. Groped for the cereal box blindly. His eyes never left her face. Then.

 

The box was in front of him. Opened it. Snatched up the cereal bag up and tossed the box. Somewhere. There was maybe a cup left in the bag. But it would do. Laid the open bag on his stomach, above the huddle that became their hands. She couldn’t reach. So he moved. For her. Always for her. He fisted a handful of the cereal. Brought it up to her face. She looked at his closed fist. She blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. He uncurled his hand, slowly. She continued to stare. He whined.

 

_Eat._

 

Her mind screamed at her. She wanted to eat. Yes. Needed to eat. So she ate. Once the handful was consumed. He fisted another. Brought it back up to her mouth. His hand uncurled but cupped. She continued to eat. He continued to stare. But he wanted more. So he uncurled his other hand from around her fists. Brought her hand up. Used his much larger hand to guide her fingers through his hair. She felt a tug in her head. Again. So she combed through his hair as she feasted out of his hand. Until. The tip of her tongue accidentally brushed, skimmed the dip where his palm, forefinger, and middle finger met, to reach the last crumbs. He groaned. Her stomach squeezed and turned.

 

_From hunger?_

_Of what?_

 

She stilled. Paused. Confused. Her legs were asleep again. Panic. She was trapped between the couch and him again. Again. Again.

 

_How did she get here?_

 

He whined. Irritated. Then she felt something. It gently brushed against her right temple. More physical than mental this time. His tongue swept up from underneath her cheekbone to the corner of her eyebrow. She froze. Then laughed. Laughed until her body trembled and quivered. So he did it again. Licked the entire length of her cheek. Then the side of her nose. His breaths chilled the wet tracks that his tongue left behind.

 

She peeked at him from the corners of her eyes. Shocked to see his eyes bright. Excited. He enjoyed this. Was ecstatic that she cradled him on her lap. Content that she petted him and brushed him. Satisfied that she laughed when he licked her face. They paused. One. Two. Three seconds passed.

 

But she felt sleepy. Now full from cereal and exhausted from laughing. He hummed. She shifted. Towards her bedroom. He whined. Like a spoiled little Ren.

 

_TUG._

 

She would have to sleep here again.

 

_With Ren in her lap._

 

Yes. She continued her ministrations through his hair. He wiped the hand that held the cereal across her sternum. Before fisting a corner of her sweater into his own hand.

 

_Bad, Ren. He will have to be trained. How to care for himself. How to be good._

_Good enough to keep. To stay._

 

Her eyes drooped. Her arms grew heavy. Could no longer comb through his hair with her fingers. He sighed. Moved her hands back to the bottom hem of his sweater. Made her fist the sweater. To anchored her. His hands then surrounded hers. Like a cage. Maybe a protective wall.

 

_Yes. That’s better. A protective wall._

 

But she couldn’t take in a stray. No. She barely made last month’s rent and tuition only increased every term. Her jobs, scholarships, grant were stretched already. Pulled. Thinned. She couldn’t. He squeezed her hands. He hummed.

 

_She’ll find a way. She always did._

 

He tucked his nose deep into the side of her face. Deeper into her hair. Until he was almost buried beneath her hair and skin. His hair tickled her cheek, nose. But Ol’ Ren’s long coat was so beautiful she could never give him a haircut. Never. Just brushed his hair. Until it shined.

 

_Go to sleep. Dream._

 

So she did. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

 

_I’ll be your Ren. Good Ol’ Ren. So you’ll never be alone again. I promise. Please keep me. Let me stay, Rey._


	3. Chapter 3

He nearly fell off the couch when she stirred. Jumped off the couch. Stepped over him. He growled. Ignored. She stumbled towards her bedroom (only bedroom in this tiny apartment). Door left open. He watched her. Sat on the couch, alone, and watched. She moved. Twisted. Danced. Until. Her hands reached for the waist of her warm leggings. And yanked. Down. He turned his head. Averted his eyes. Closed his eyes. For modesty. Exhaled through his nose. Exhaled, hard.

 

“Shit, it’s 9 o'clock,” she whispered to no one.

 

But his ears perked up. He turned his head back towards her bedroom. Though she no longer stood near the doorway. One. Two. Three seconds passed. No sound came from the bedroom.

 

_Was she okay? Hurt? Did she need his help?_

 

He worried. He almost left his warm nest. Almost. Instead he stretched his mind. Reached out to brush hers. But then she ran out of the bedroom. Same sweater, no leggings, but faded jeans instead. Carried a grey backpack. It looked heavy. Full. Turned an immediate left. Pulled that door open. A bathroom, he noted. Those were the only three doors in her tiny apartment. Front door. Bedroom. Bathroom. She jerked the hand that griped the doorknob. It gave. To close behind her. It clicked shut.

 

_No._

 

He moved off the couch. Crossed over to her in one. Two. Three steps. Until his forehead touched the shut door. Left hand on the door handle (the one she had just touched). His right hand, fingers spread, palm rested on the door. He glared ahead. As if the door wasn’t there. As if he was looking into her eyes. He whined.

 

_Open. Open up. Please. Open. Open. Open._

 

His hands shook. Rattled the doorknob. He pressed his ear to the door. He heard her move. Not enough. He needed more. He needed in. Couldn’t be apart from her. Needed to see her.

 

“Give me a second.”

 

So he did. Another. And another. Jiggled the handle again. Again. She pulled open the door. He almost fell in. Almost. She steadied him. Her hand braced his sweater-clad shoulder. It was warm. Too small. They both stood tall. He stared at her. She glared at him. Peeved. But there she was.

 

She released her hand off his body. Ran it through some loose pieces of hair at the nape of her neck. Her three-buns. He craved to do the same. He reached out. To touch her. Wanted to. Like last night. She stepped back. Into the bathroom. Away from him. He hesitated. Arm still strung out. Her eyes huge. Mouth tensed.

 

He looked too big. Too broad. Wide. Intimidating. Like a monster. Even if he looked sort of funny in his too small grey sweater. And boxer-briefs and socks that looked ridiculous in his current state. So he hunched. Cocooned. Small. Smaller. There. Until he had to look up at her. From his knees. She blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Inhaled.

 

“Look, you can’t stay. I don’t know you.”

 

He whined.

 

“Stop that.”

 

He wailed.

 

“No. Ren, listen to me! You will listen to me.”

 

He hummed. His eyes glazed over. She had nearly choked on her next breath. Mistake. Not Ren. No.

 

“I can’t keep you. You know I can’t. You have a home, somewhere. A family-”

 

He whined. Whined. Whined. Like his life depended on it (it did).

 

“Stop that! I’m already late. Stop whining. I said stop.”

 

Neither moved. Neither dared to move. One. Two. Three minutes passed.

 

“Fine! You can stay here. Only for a couple of days. Do you hear me, Ren? Only a couple of days.”

 

He hummed.

 

She huffed. Frustrated. But she turned her back to him. Pushed her feet into her beaten up sneakers. No jacket. Walked towards the front door. Squinted at the pile of black fabric next to her feet. Stared hard. He shuffled over to her. Still on his knees. Behind her. His eyes bore holes into the small of her back. Reached with his left to touch the inside of her left wrist. Warm. Her arm stilled. Then. She snatched it away. Gripped the doorknob. Twisted. Pushed. Right foot in front of the left. Left foot joined her right.

 

“Be a good boy. Don’t make a mess. Okay? I’ll be back tonight.”

 

Then she slammed the door behind her. He hated doors. Hated them. But he was allowed to stay. He rose up from his knees. Stood to his full stature. Tall. He shivered. The nest no longer warmed by her. Him. Them. So he walked towards her bathroom. Tiny, like the rest of her apartment.

 

He thumbed the bristles of her toothbrush. Damp from use. By her. So he grabbed it. Took the toothpaste with his other hand. Squeezed too much onto the bristles. But. Brushed his teeth. Rinsed his mouth. Swirled with her mouthwash. Spat that out. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. His hair shined. Used the fingernails of his right hand to gently scrape along his scalp. He hummed. Then turned to step back and out of the bathroom.

 

He was cold and hungry. Quivered. Hunger could wait. Glimpsed at the black shaggy blanket tossed onto the couch. Her couch. His. Theirs. So he wrapped the throw around his shoulders. Tied two corners together at the base of his neck. A shield. Yes. From the cold that seeped into his bones, long ago. And never left. Burrowed into him. Stayed. Until now. He found his home. He inhaled, deeply.

 

_Her._

 

One. Two. Three seconds passed. So he gathered his clothes.

 

_Cold. Slippery. Clammy._

 

Tapped his wallet. Keys. All there. Good. Slid his sock-clad feet into his black dress shoes. Damp. Manageable. And reached for the front door handle. It felt warm. Warmed by her. Possibly. Always her. Opened the door. Stepped out into the hallway. Shaggy blanket, black boxer-briefs, and damp shoes. Closed her door behind him. He exhaled.

 

He founded the communal laundry with ease. He always had a keen sense of direction. So he loaded up a washer. Used two loose quarters from his wallet to pay for it. He waited. The cycle finished. He transferred it into one of the dryers. Another two quarters gone. Used. He waited. The cycled finished. Pulled out his clothes. Touched them. Prodded them. Not as soft. Scratchy.

 

_Oops. Dry clean only._

 

He didn’t care. Untied the blanket around his shoulders. Tossed it to the ground. Almost threw her grandfather’s old grey sweater to the ground. Hesitated. No. He folded it and placed it at the top of the dryer. Then reached and tugged his undershirt, on buttoned his button up, pulled his sweater over his body. Stepped into his pants. Dragged them up. Belted it. Fully dressed. Ready.

 

So he gathered the tossed blanket and folded up sweater. And walked. One. Two. Three flights of stairs. Until.

 

_Shit. The door’s locked. Idiot._

 

He jiggled it again. Nothing. Rattled it. Nothing. Almost started to pound on the door. Almost. An old lady peered at him with beady eyes. Passed him slowly. Gave him a suspicious look. He looked down. His ears burned. Oh, they burned. Frustrated. He wanted back in. Needed in. Craved their couch. Their nest. Refuge. Hideaway.

 

So he waited. Back against her wall. Leaned up against it. An hour passed. So he crouched down. Down. Until his bottom rested on the floor. His bent legs pressed to his chest. He waited. Another hour. Another. Again. And again. Restless. So he fisted his right hand and punched. Punched the ground next to him. Slapped his own thigh. Pummelled it. Scratched at his forearms. No. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. He needed to be good. Good enough to keep.

 

_A good boy._

 

If he was good she would give him a treat. Maybe brush his hair. Until it shined. Maybe even wash it for him. Yes. She would shampoo his hair. Brush it until it shined. Then would him let burrow around her. Into her. She would pet him and whisper into his ear. All praises. He shuddered. Yes.

 

So he climbed to his feet. Held tightly the blanket and sweater. And walked. Down. Down. Down. Until he breathed the morning air. He needed a walk. So he walked.

 

He walked until he left her neighbourhood. Crossed town. Until he stood in front of his residence of dwelling. It was a hotel. So he climbed up to the lobby. Right foot in front of the left. Left foot in front of the right. Repeat. He stopped. Faced the receptionist.

 

“Good Afternoon, Mr.-”

 

“Hello,” he interrupted. His voice rough from not using it for days.

 

And he made a sharp right. Past the elevators. To the stairs. Healthy diet and exercise prolonged life. His life with her (he hoped). So he climbed again. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight flights of stairs. He breathed through his mouth. Needed more oxygen. Closed his eyes. Focused on his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Then continued. He occupied the space in front of his apartment (hotel) door. He spied the DO NOT DISTURB sign that he had left there since the first day he moved in. Fumbled for his key pass that was tossed haphazardly into his wallet. Found it. Pressed it above the handle.

 

 _Beep_. Green. He gripped and turned. The lights turned on by themselves. Stalked right in. And promptly ignored the legal papers scattered on the floor. Shredded copies of a non-disclosure agreement he had signed years ago. More than a decade ago.

 

_Jobless._

 

Torn up reminds of an obituary for a woman he used to call home.

 

_Motherless._

 

His mess. Hurricane. Tornado. All because of him. His anger. His lack of control. But no. He was a good boy now.

 

_A good Ren. Good Ol’ Ren. If she would allow._

 

He threw the blanket and sweater onto his bed. The only thing close to being organized in the room. Since he rarely slept in it. Or slept at all. Walked over to his bathroom. Didn’t bother to close the door behind him. Just started to peel the layers off of him. To create another pile of black fabric. Just like how she did. Oh. He already missed her. Missed their home. Angry that he locked himself out of their nest.

 

So he marched to the glass shower. Under the rain head nozzle. And turned on the water. Ice cold. Lukewarm. Hot. Too hot. Cold. Perfect. He ignored the hotel-provided amenities. And scrubbed with his nails. Scratched. Purged himself of anything that wasn’t her. Wasn’t him. Wasn’t them. He scrubbed at his head. Immediately recoiled. She had brushed his hair. Until it shined.

 

He felt something bubble in his chest. His shoulders taut. He ruined her work. All her hard work. He slammed his eyes shut. Tried to remember the sensation of her finger combing through his hair. The brush that massaged his scalp. He tried. Oh, he really tried. So he clamped his scalp with his hands and just pushed. Attacked it. Shoved it. Until the bubble burst and he could only tremble.

 

He wished he could cry. Cry big fat tears. So her thumb could sweep away the liquid tracks that they left behind. But he couldn’t. Haven’t been able to cry for years. So he whimpered instead. He whined. His own fingers grazed the back of his neck, nose, eyelids, cheek. Tried to imagine that it was her touching him again. It didn’t work. So he scratched himself. He cried out. He tucked his hands under his armpits. Imagined it was her whispering:

 

_Up._

 

But his hands were too large. Too much him. Not enough her. So he crushed himself until he was sure he would bruise. And he tried again. Once more. Carded all of his fingers through his wet hair. Tried to follow the paths that her fingers took. The ones she had spoiled him with. But nothing. So he fisted and yanked. His scalped screamed. Protested. He had ripped some hair out. Ripped out more. More. Until.

 

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

 

_Ren had the nicest long, silk-like black coat._

_How could he be a good Ren if he even didn’t look like Ren?_

So he paused. Stilled. One. Two. Three seconds passed.

 

Inhaled.

 

Exhaled.

 

Repeat.

 

He felt less fury. More irritation. He didn’t need to recreate her ministrations. Not when she allowed him to stay. Maybe she’ll look down at him. Down into his immense, dewy eyes. Let him bury his chin into the soft panes of her stomach. He’ll convince her to treat him. Award him. Maybe brush his hair. Until it shined. Maybe even wash it for him. Yes. She would shampoo his hair. Brush it until it shined. Then would him let burrow around her. Into her. She would pet him and whisper into his ear. All praises. His body shuddered. Yes.

 

He twisted the shower off. Extended his arm for a towel. He chose the largest one. He had many. And patted himself dry. Ruffled through his hair with another towel. Tossed the spent towels behind him. Exited the shower. Exited the bathroom. Entered his bedroom. He was comfortable nude. Never ashamed. Relaxed even. But he knew he had to get back to her. To their nest. Before she did. She would scowl him for running away. Escaped. If she got home before him. So he hurried.

 

Another pair of black boxer-briefs. Black socks. Black V-neck t-shirt. No button up. A black crewneck. Black jeans. Black belt. Black sneakers. He reached for his wallet. Picked out his credit card and room key pass. Everything else was irrelevant. Tossed his wallet back onto his bed. Bundled her blanket and her grandfather’s old grey sweater to his chest with one arm. The other pocketed the two cards. He eyed the cellphone on his bedside table. Left untouched for over three days. He blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Turned around. Advanced onwards. Opened the door. Stepped out into the hallway. Closed the door behind him. He exhaled. Marched back to the stairwell.

 

Down.

 

            Down.

 

                        Down.

 

                                    Down.

 

                                                Down.

 

                                                            Down.

 

                                                                        Down.

 

                                                                                    Down.

 

                                                                                                Down.

 

Passed the elevators. Passed the reception desk. Passed the glass doors. He walked. Away. Beyond. Off.

 

Until her apartment building came into view. Until he waited to shuffle into the building with a delivery driver. Until her front door was in front of him again. He lightly touched his forehead to her door. It was warm to the touch. Quiet. She had not returned yet. Brushed his lips against the door. He hummed. Pleased. So he turned around. Back against the door. And slid down. Crouched down. Down until his bottom touched the floor. Bent his long legs and pressed the tops of thighs to his chest. Tucked in his knees. Placed her blanket and her grandfather’s old grey sweater under his chin. Trapped between his knees and chin. Wrapped his arms around his shins. And waited. Waited for her. Closed his eyes. Smiled into his knees. He hummed.

 

He awoke to something touching the crown of his head. Ruffled it. Petted it.

 

_Her._

 

He opened his eyes. Peered up. Up to her face. She caressed his hair and scalp. She looked tired. Drained. He knew it was night again. His body vibrated. Her hand paused. He willed his thoughts to spread out. To her. Then she calmed. Perfect. She smiled at him. Slow. Blissed out. So she extended both hands on the tops of his knees. Flung her blanket and her grandfather’s old grey sweater to the side. Pulled them away from his upper body. Just a bit. Enough. To move her arms under his armpits.

 

_Up._

 

His heart thundered. He followed her. Up. Up. Until she had to look up at him. He did not like it. She deserved a pedestal. Him, her servant. She wiggled the doorknob. Turned her key. Click. The door cracked open. He stared at her face. She peered into dark void that was her apartment. Theirs. Then he captured her arms. From under his armpits. Nudged them until they were hand-in-hand. His hand dwarfed hers. But he felt protected. He hummed.

 

He motioned them inside. Slowly opened the door. More. Wider. All the way. She kicked the blanket and sweater inside. He pulled them into their apartment. Shut the door closed. All the way. It was just them again. So he stooped down. To his knees. Hands still interlaced. Pressed his nose to her stomach. Breathed in. But she smelled different.

 

_Too different. Not her. Not him. Not them. He hated that._

 

And nudged the bottom hem of sweater up. He paused. Waited for her response. One. Two. Three moments passed. She allowed him. So he pushed it higher. Up until was held up by his forehead. Where it gathered just under the curve of her breasts. Her stomach bare. For him. So he took. Oh, how much he took. He pressed into her soft, comfortable stomach with the side of his face. He inhaled, deliberately.

 

_See, Rey. I’ve been good all day. I didn’t make a mess. See? Please, Rey. I deserve a treat. A reward._

 

She hummed.


	4. Chapter 4

Rey did not question him on how he ended up locked outside their apartment. He never spoke. Only ever whined, growled, whimpered, and hummed. So. She allowed him to glide her sweater up beneath her breasts. He was a mess. She almost felt sorry for him. So she allowed him. He had been a good boy, after all. She closed her eyes and hummed.

 

Then she felt it. Something wetted her skin. It tickled. She was almost sure he had shed a tear. Maybe two. But no. The sensation was near her bellybutton. With half-lidded eyes, she peered down. What she saw, caused her breath to still.

 

He traced the edges of her lower stomach. With his tongue. Large, wet, and pink. Unashamed. His eyes opened but hazed over.

 

_What are you doing?_

He did not falter.

 

_Stop._

 

He slowed. But instead pressed feather-light kisses upon her skin.

 

_Stop that._

 

He did not. He kissed harder. Nipped at her skin. Only a little. Heat pooled where the hard edge of his teeth pinched her skin. So she gathered the hair at the top of his head. And yanked. Hard. With purpose.

 

_Stop it!_

 

He did not. So she pulled harder. Tired to pull him away. Tried to tear his mouth off of her stomach. But he pushed his face closer. His arms circled around her. Tightly. Almost painfully. Desperate. He whimpered. So she yanked at his hair with more force.

 

_Harder, Rey. Pull harder._

 

_What?_

 

She stilled. He had enjoyed that. Wanted more, even. He was nothing like Ol’ Ren. Immediately, he dropped his hands. Fell backwards. His elbows hit the floor with a thud. His expression pained. His eyes were immense. He was sorry. Had disobeyed. Misbehaved. So sorry.

 

She took her chance. She ran to her bedroom. He wailed. She slammed the door behind her. Turned the lock in place. He howled. Pounded on the other side of the door. Hammered at the door. Hard enough to bruise, she thought. Loud enough she was sure her neighbours would have called the police (if she didn’t live in a bad area).

When she was almost sure the door had started to splinter. Everything stilled. One. Two. Three minutes passed. She sucked in swallow, fast huffs of oxygen. Then she heard it. Strained her ear against the door. A sob. A wet, pitiful sob. Then he roared. The sound of fabric violently ripping. A thump, not against her door, but something softer. Them a smack. Skin on skin. A full-on fight outside her bedroom door.

 

She felt anxious. Curious to see what await her outside. But she lingered behind the protection of her door.

 

She inhaled. He punched.

 

She exhaled. He scratched.

 

Repeat.

 

An hour had passed. The brutal sounds had stopped a while ago. Only the sounds of hiccups filtered into her bedroom. Too quiet. So she gripped the doorknob with both hands. Wavered.

 

_Unlock it. Turn the handle. Pull the door open. Open. Please. Openopenopen._

 

So she did. What she found was mayhem. He was a wreck. A fright. Havoc. 

 

He had ripped the crewneck and t-shirt he had been wearing into shreds. Destroyed it. His fingernails were bloodied. His own blood. He had scratched at his face, his bared arms and chest. Drew blood. The skin around his torso was tinged red. Some parts were already a sickly yellow. His face was drenched in a mixture of tears, sweat, blood, and snot. He drew in short breaths, accompanied by pathetic hiccups that escaped with every breath. His hand tugged at his hair. He looked guilty.

 

_I’m sorry. Very sorry. So Sorry._

 

(Was he sorry for scaring her? Was she sorry for locking him out when he needed her?)

 

She knelt down to where he was curled up in a ball, on his side, facing her. She reached forward. Slowly. Readied for any sudden movements. But nothing. His limbs stayed pressed against himself. Her hand found purchase on his left cheek. Cupped it. Ran her thumb down along the curve of his cheekbone. Stroked it back and forth. It pacified him. But his hiccups did not stop. He struggled to take in a deep breathe.

 

So she rose. Away from Ren. Towards the kitchen. Pulled out a glass cup. Filled it with cool water. And marched back to him. She had to place the cup on the ground in order to maneuver his body up. Propped him up with her own body. The side of his head lolled against her left collarbone. Then she hovered the glass of water against his lips. He protested. She insisted. He drank, weakly.

 

But he was a mess. His miserable hiccups prevented him from taking full gulps without choking and spattering it down his throat. He was truly pitiful.

 

“You’re a mess,” she humoured into the side of his sweat-drenched head.

 

He stunk of sweat. Not entirely unpleasant. Almost enticing. Still. He needed-

 

_A bath._

 

“What?”

 

He glanced up at her from between his lashes. Shy. Timid. (A façade).

 

She felt a dull ache at the front of her head. Thump. Pulse. Throb. The pressure only increased when she unwillingly looked into his eyes. They had a mischievous glint in them. She narrowed her eyes.

 

_A bat-_

 

“It’s you,” she whispered, “it’s always been you.”

 

The pressure fluttered away as his eyes widen. Surprised. But guilty. Shamefaced. But she was too curious for her own good. All sense had went out the door the second her fingers grazed the his neck. It would be her downfall (or his).

 

_I can show you. Can teach you how._

 

She blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. They breathed in unison. Eyes locked. She waited for him to continue.

 

_Later. After my bath._

 

He insisted. Tried to make a deal.

 

She snorted, loudly. Mocked him.

 

He squinted his eyes. Determined. Her mind yanked at her. Flung itself against her skull. She slammed her eyes shut.

 

_Please? After my bath. I promise, Rey._

 

The effect of hearing her own name within her head paralyzed her. She tried to move her fingers but they only trembled. She tried to scream. No sound escaped. Nothing. But she was resourceful.

 

_Fine._

 

Her mind thrust towards his. She felt his satisfaction. His exhilaration. How single-minded he was when he got what he wanted. What he needed. Bratty. Spoiled. Manipulative. She would indulge him, for now. But would not tolerate any further disobedience.

 

_Absolutely. Anything for you_.

_Anything?_ (She knew how determined he was).

 

He frantically nodded. Agreed too eagerly.

 

_You’re not allowed to touch me._

 

He physically recoiled (he never thought about the consequences of his actions). She was pleased. In control again. But his eyes welled up. His breaths quickened. His lower jaw wobbled. He was about to throw a tantrum. She felt him ready to explode. To burst. A repeat of his earlier performance. But she was ready this time.

 

“I will give you your bath. But until you can prove that you’re a good boy you are not allowed to touch me unless I say so,” she commanded.

 

He gritted his teeth. His nostrils flared. One. Two. Three minutes passed. He opened his eyes. Glared angrily into hers. But he wanted this. Needed her fingers to crave his scalp.

 

_Fine._

 

She hummed.

 

_Good boy, my Ren._

 

So she gathered his body up with hers. Her, a human crutch. Him, a kicked puppy with his tail between his legs.

 

She dragged his tall frame into the bathroom. Gently perched him on the toilet. The bathtub to the right of it. She plugged the drain and filled it with warm water. Poured in some cheap bubble bath concoction. Agitated the water.

 

When she turned her back to the readied bath she stared into his eyes. His face was crusted in dried tears, sweat, and snot. He no longer hiccupped. The deep scratches he inflected on himself had been preserved as trails of dried blood. The redness around his torso had deepened into the beginnings of many bruises. He had done this to himself.

 

But it did not matter. No. Because he was no longer sour. But he beamed at her. He was excited for his bath. He unbuckled his belt. Unbuttoned his trousers. Pulled down the zipper. Lifted his hips up slightly as he pushed his trousers past his bottom and down his legs. She helped him untangle them from around his ankles. Once freed, he reached for his boxer-briefs. She squeaked. Pivoted her head back, swiftly. Her face redden. From the steam of the bath or from his actions, she did not allow her self to ponder on it. She stared down at the bubbles in the bathtub.

 

He hummed. Signalled that he was undressed. Ready.

 

She coughed. Nodded her head and closed her eyes. For modesty. She heard the water move. Sloshed. Sloped. Splashed. When she was sure he was seated in the bathtub she peeled open her eyes.

 

From her kneeled position on the floor she was at eye level to him in the bathtub. He had submerged himself when her eyes were closed. He looked like a drowned puppy. Now he sat upright, back flush against the back of the tub. His wet hair pushed back. His ears displayed. The tips of them were tinged pink. They looked comically large without his hair hiding them. She smiled at them. He pulled his hands from under the water to cover them fully.

 

_Stop staring._

 

But she couldn’t. His raised forearms were dusted with thin, dark brown hairs. His bared arms were huge. Muscular. His chest was broad (but she already knew that) and pale. Defined. Though she knew he was softer than what his exterior suggested. So the water continued to cling to his skin. And she continued to stare. Her eyes followed the drops of water that trickle down. Down to what stayed hidden underneath the bubbles. He gulped.

 

One. Two. Three minutes passed. She was warm. Very hot. Heated. So she coughed. Pretended to clear her throat. Averted her eyes. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Nope. Instead she reached out. Past him. Used her left hand to steady herself on the ridge of the tub. Reached until her right hand clutched her shampoo bottle. He squealed.

 

The noise surprised her. She whipped her head around. Her eyes met his. They sprinkled. Glistened. So clear. He lowered his arms away from his ears. Back down into the pool of warm water. He waited for her next move. With bated breath. She debated. They fell into a pregnant pause.

 

So she huffed. Twisted the shampoo bottle cap off and poured some into the palm of her hand. Then she massaged it into his scalp with her fingertips. He was quiet. She held his teeth grit together. She used her nails to scratch a little. To make him hurt, a little. He finally moaned. She didn’t stop. He panted.

 

She drew her fingers through his hair. From the hairline towards the back of his head. Rotated her fingertips in clockwise circles. Made sure to lather the hair behind his ears. When she paid a little too much attention to that area he sighed. In response, she pinched the tips of his ears.

 

_They’re cute._

 

Slid her fingers around the edge of his ears. Used her index finger and thumb to stimulate his ear lobes. Rolled up from tip to bottom. Caressed them. Until he slowly relaxed.

 

When she lightly scratched the crown of his scalp, he slid further down the bathtub. He looked at peace. Passed out. Asleep. So she stopped. Wearily lifted her fingers out of the mass that was his hair.

 

_Don’t stop. Please. More._

 

She felt dizzy. From the steam of the bath, maybe. But she knew it was because of him. In the depths of her muddled mind. Deep down. It was always him.

 

Her fingers moved back through his head. It felt too good to stop. To finally care for someone. With single-minded focus, she continued to massage the shampoo around. The nape of his neck. The crown of his head. The outline of his hairline. He hunched down into himself as she continued. A hand rose up from the soapy water and gripped the edge of the bathtub. It almost touched hers. As if he wanted to test her earlier command. But she was a lenient owner (for now).

 

She made sure to graze every part of scalp with her short nails. His knuckles turned white from his intense grip. She saw his shoulders give weakest of quivers. He whimpered. She wanted to hear more of him. She needed to. It felt as if every molecule within her body was excited.

_But for what?_

_For more. More._

 

She felt like someone had whined up a string within her. Like she was at the edge of something. But it was not her own. No.

 

_His?_

 

So she pulled at his hair. He sighed. Twirled it. He panted louder. Stroked it. His body trembled. Tugged it. He moaned, loudly. Her own body snapped. Water sloshed against the sides of the bathtub as his lower body convulsed. It dampened the front of her sweater.

 

_Oh, shit._

 

He groaned.

 

_Did he just…?_

 

But they both knew what had happened.

 

She thought how it should have frightened her. How she felt everything. How she felt him. But it didn’t. Instead, heat pooled within her. She felt satiated. Elevated. Slightly amused. Couldn’t even care that her sweater now clung to her breasts.

 

He had kept his head lowered. His body tense again. Embarrassed. But not ashamed. Never ashamed.

 

One. Two. Three minutes passed. His worry, thick enough to touch. So she pushed his shoulders down until he slid further into the tub. Until the water covered him from the neck down. Except the bathtub was too short for his tall stature. His knees popped up from under the water. It was an entertaining sight. So she left him there.

 

“Dry off when you’re done. I’ll look for some clothes,” she shouted over her shoulder.

 

She walked out of the bathroom. Ran back to where the mess had started. Her bedroom door. The ripped up shreds of clothing still laid untouched on the floor. She spied drops of blood. When he had scratched himself. She sighed. The full effect of her day smashed into her. She felt tired. Exhausted from her study groups. Depleted from working two part-time jobs. Her own feelings.

 

She could deal with it tomorrow. Would deal with all of it tomorrow. Her arms felt heavy. But her body felt warm. Her futon mattress looked inviting even though she knew it was lumpy. She could hear the water drain. It was hypnotic.

 

So she crawled towards her bed on the floor. Not so gracefully plopped herself down on to her blanket. She laid on it with her stomach, too tired to grapple it from under her. Content as she was still warm from earlier. Her eyes closed. Her breaths deepened. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

 

She was roused from her sleep after what felt like an eternity later. He had wrestled the blanket from beneath her. Satisfied when it covered the both of them. She was in the center of her bed. Him at the edge. They did not touch.

 

But then his hands gripped the bottom hem of her sweater. Took care to avoid brushing her stomach.

 

_Off._

 

She did not understand. Mind still groggy from sleep. Hazy. Clouded.

 

_It’s still damp._

 

She was too tired to argue so she raised her arms. He pulled the sweater off. It was a challenge. Then she heard his breath hitch. He choked. Coughed.

 

She should have been mortified at her nakedness from the waist up. But she was too tired. She huffed.

 

“Turn around,” she demanded.

 

He hesitated. Uncertain. Only for a moment. Posed to question her. Then exhaled through his nose quietly and lightly chuckled. And turned. His back to her front.

 

She hesitated. Uncertain. Only for a moment. Sat up. Then unbuttoned her jeans and push them off past her hips. Off her legs. Tossed it to the side. Her choice of boy shorts underneath were conservative. Modest. She reached blindly for a shirt. He made the motion to turn around. To look at her.

 

_No._

 

He whined. She yanked a shirt over her head. Fabric skimmed the tops of her knees.

 

_I promise to not touch you._

 

She scoffed.

 

_I promise._

 

But she could feel him begin to cloud her mind. 

 

_Stop that._

 

His shoulder jolted. Her mind cleared. But she still felt him lingering. Barely. He felt miserable. Dejected. Unwanted. He was too loud. So she pulled at his body until his back warmed her front. Both on their right side. The rest of her body folded into the back of his. She gathered him in. Her hips hugged his bottom. Her head met the nape of his neck. Her knees fit perfectly in the crook of his. Her toes grazed the back of his calved. His arms were useless against his chest. He did not know what to do. She nudged her left knee in between the warmth of his inner thighs. His sturdy bare thighs. Her upper thigh grazed the edge of his boxer briefs. She felt his body go rigid.

 

She had forgotten to clothe him. She giggled. Too sleepy to care. Instead, she pressed her lips between his sharp shoulder blades. Placed another in the centre of his neck. Another on his left shoulder. Another on his right shoulder. She tried to burrow beneath the bone and muscle. The damp edges of his hair kissed her forehead. Then placed her left hand over his powerful left pectoral.

 

_Why is he so kriffing fit? He better not have an eight-pack._

 

He chuckled. Had relaxed into her hold. So she listened to his deep, rhythmic breaths. His heartbeat steady beneath her palm. And they slept.

 

Rey dreamed. Ben did not.


	5. Chapter 5

It was still dark when he roused. His long body lingered over the edge of their bed. She had shoved him. Away from her. He frowned. She had slept alone for all twenty-two years of her life. She did not need him. But he was desperate for her. Weak.

 

She had curled into herself. Blanket wrapped tightly around her. Covered from head to toe. It cocooned her. Obscured her from him. His mouth twitched. He loathed the blanket. He pushed himself up to sit. Legs crossed. His bent knees almost touched her. Looked down at her sleeping form. Scowled at the blanket. Wanted to rip it into shreds. Until it was just her before his eyes. Only her.

 

But he had to be obedient. Could not touch her without her permission. But he was an impulsive man. And he had to be with her. Closer. Together. She was just so radiant.

 

He had to do something. His body shook with anticipation. So he gripped the blanket and nudged it down. Until her freckled face, slender neck, and strong shoulders were exposed. His eyes traced the vast valleys and dips that her skin created. He wanted to know every part of her. Be hers. Her pet. Hers to keep.

 

_More. More. More._

 

He carved for more. To be her everything. His heart strummed at the thought. It was his single-minded need for love and acceptance that consumed him. Her adoration and approval.

 

His body ached for hers. Caused it to respond erratically to even the lightest of her touches. He would flourish under her. For her. His hand mindlessly drifted to palm himself.

 

_Shit._

 

His hand seared. The tips of his ears burned. She slept too peacefully for him to continue his obsessive thoughts. She had no idea of the wolf that she shared her home with. Oblivious to how he twisted her words to satisfy his own sick pleasure. Yes, he did not disobey her command. Yes, he did not touch her. But he had manipulated the blanket with intent.

 

He felt repulsed with himself. She deserved the world. The universe. To be deified. Not polluted by his filthy hands. He was to kneel before her. To only bask in her light. His body shuddered. Every nerve in his body screamed at him for…

 

_More._

 

But he could not. So he stood up. And started to pace. From one wall to another. One. Two. Three strides. He crossed the length of the room in three measured strides. He huffed. He felt imprisoned. Restless. Smothered from his thoughts. He loomed over the bed. Hovered over her. Extended his hand over her neck. A forefinger traced the delicate skin that covered her collarbones. She murmured incoherently.

 

_Bad boy. No touching._

 

He barrelled out of their room. Fled to the bathroom. He had disregarded her rule. He was weak. Worthless. She would do away with him. Replace him with someone else. The thought of her hands on someone else made him see red. Saliva accumulated in his mouth. He recognised the sharp bite of acid. Tried to swallow down his disgust and pain. But his stomach tingled. Contracted. And he heaved. Again and again. But nothing came. There was only the bitter taste of acid.

 

She found him like that. Crouched down by the side of the toilet. Knees against the cold tile floor. Face hovered over the toilet. Clenched fists rested on the seat. His shoulders were taut. His body quivered.

 

She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Handed him a glass of water before slipping behind him. He accepted with both hands. Demonstrated discipline by avoiding her fingers. Brought it up to his lips. Attempted to relieve the throbbing in his stomach. But she tapped the inside of his raised wrist. He froze. Then carefully sipped. Little by little.

 

The cool water agitated his upset stomach. It grumbled with disapproval. Without warning, a finger traced his bellybutton. He gasped at the sensation. Groaned loudly when her warm hand flatten on his bare stomach. She rubbed soothing circles into his skin. He tipped the glass back up to his lips. And sipped.

 

His skin thawed at her touch. His shivers ceased as she lazily ran her other hand and fingertips up and down his pale back. Her other palm outlined the curve of his spine. Traced each of his vertebras. She started to hum a lullaby. He placed the empty glass on the floor to his right. Rested his heavy head on his forearm. She rested her cheek on his left shoulder blade. He mewled as she continued to touch him gently. Like he was a piece of art. A masterpiece.

 

But his knees screamed in protest. Pressed against the hard tiled floor. Folded beneath his weight. His legs numbed ages ago. His back ached hunched over the toilet. But he did not want her to stop. So he ignored his discomfort. Closed his eyes. One. Two. Three minutes passed.

 

He could feel her discomfort begin. The bathroom floor did not give any comfort. Could not. Would not. But she did. Her fingers wiggled into the crook of his underarms. Her gripped the toilet seat. Exhaled loudly. It tickled.

 

_Up._

 

She ordered. Anything for her. She stood to her full height. He followed. She twisted his body to face hers. He towered over her. Every inch that he surpassed her in height and width made his body burn. She would fit perfectly tucked under his chin. How her hand would feel clasped in his. Their fingers intertwined. He mused.

 

But she had thought of him as a creature. Had frightened her. The instinct to appear vulnerable pulsed. He only wanted her to accept him. He began to crouch. His knees cried in protest. She tapped a knuckle against the side of his jaw. His thoughts interrupted. His actions stilled. Her hands slid off his body. Down. Until her fingers fluttered along his knuckles. Danced along the pads of his fingers. He was hesitant. So she clamped his hand with hers. Squeezed it. And led him back into their bedroom. He followed her. He would follow her everywhere.

 

They stood at the foot of the bed. Facing each other. His left hand clung to her right. But then she pushed. Used her left hand to push against his chest. Towards the bed. She released his hand. His bottom cushioned his descent. His elbows flew out behind him. Braced him fall. He sat reclined with their pillows behind him. She towered over him now. He felt dazed.

 

He stretched his mind out to hers. Curious to understand. _Why. Why. Why_. But he could not probe hers. Her mind was a solid wall. Guarded from him. He frowned. She had started to learn. She smiled at him. Gleamed.

 

She nudged his legs apart with a toe. He moved them accordingly. His body was stretched out along the length of the bed. His weight on his elbows. He did not dare to move unless she commanded him to. Her eyes bore into his form.

 

_Good boy._

 

His face twisted into a crooked smile. A bit of teeth peeked out from between his lips. Her eyes were fierce. Mischievous. She was illuminated by the glow of the moon.

 

She climbed on to the bed. On all fours. Her knees confined his left knee. Her fisted hands on both sides of his shoulders. She was poised above him. Their faces inches apart. Her quicken breaths heated his face. He was caged in by her. A soft cage. He felt his heart pound faster. Loud enough for her to hear. She grinned. Playful.

 

She raised a hand. Two fingers inched towards his lips. His heart raced. She was suddenly everywhere. Her index and middle fingers grazed his bottom lip. Pressed into it. He parted them. Inhaled. Exhaled through his mouth. Her fingers continued on with their journey.

 

Pushed into his mouth. But paused at his teeth. Her thumb then joined in. It prodded the point of one of his canine tooth. She was fascinated. His lips wrapped around her. He whimpered.

 

She stared at her trapped fingers between his lips. He stared at her flushed cheeks. His body burned again. It was a pleasant burn. Her hips shifted. He willed his to not respond in unison. He stilled every part of his body. Commanded himself to not react.

 

She sighed softly. Removed her hand from his face. He released them reluctantly. She peered at her fingers. They glistened from his saliva. She opened her mouth. Guided her fingers towards her parted lips. The tip of her tongue peaked out. To taste him. His eyes burned holes into her fingers. His hands crushed the bed sheets. She pressed the flat of her tongue on the underside of her fingers. Licked up. He leered.

 

She pressed her unoccupied hand upon his chest. Over his heart. He was certain she could feel it thundering. But she merely pushed him backwards. His elbows gave out from under him. His back hit the pillows. The crown of his head knocked softly on the wall.

 

She pushed her fingers into her mouth. Wrapped her lips around her second knuckles. Slipped them all the way in. Gone. What he could not see, he could hear. The sounds of her tongue around her fingers. The smack of her lips. The faint hum from deep within her throat. His left knee jumped up. His kneecap brushed the hem of her sleep shirt. Barely inches away from her center. If he moved it just right, he could touch-

 

_No touching._

 

She shook her head. He dug his nails into his palms. Hard enough to sting. Arms heavy on the sides of his body. He wheezed out a shaky breath. He felt dizzy. Light-headed. All the blood from his head had rushed elsewhere. Down.

 

She had opened her mouth. He could see her tongue toying with her fingers. How it slipped between the two. How it glistened from her saliva. She did not stop. He started to sweat. She hummed. He whined. And whined. And whined. Whined this pathetic noise.

 

He craved to touch her. Only had to cross a few inches of nothingness. To touch her. Worship her.

 

_Love her._

 

They stared at each other. Confused. Both sets of eyes had widened. Pupils dilated. Blown out. Black. A shared shocked expression graced their faces.

 

_Who thought that?_

 

It was like a bubble had burst. The moment lost. She looked frantic. Almost guilty. She pulled her fingers out of her mouth. Made to wipe them on her shirt. But he clung to that moment. Covered her wrist with one of his hands.

 

“No touch-”

 

He brought her hand to his mouth. And devoured her fingers. He nosily sucked on them. Lightly grazed his teeth along the length of them. Lapped his tongue over each scrape. Over and over. Drool had leaked from the corner of his mouth. But he continued. Consumed with the need to taste her.

 

She had fallen forward in his haste. The hand that had rested over his heart now crushed its palm into the soft of his skin. Dug it into the muscle there. The outside of her pinkie stroked his pebbled nipple. She could feel the fast rhythm of his heart. How erratic it was. Uncontrollable. He needed this. Refused to loosen his hold on her.

 

He ached for her warmth. Oh, but she was cruel to him. He tried to not touch. Really did. But he desired for more. Like every fibre of his being depended on her.

 

She wanted to test him. She tried to forcibly pull her hand back. His mouth and body just followed. He surged up. Legs bent at the knee. Feet flat against the bed. She faltered at his sudden movement. Had fallen back to her knees. A hand reached for the top of his shoulder for stability. Her inner thighs gripped his left thigh to anchor herself. Her bottom was seated on the top of his raised thigh. Her left knee pressed against something hard and hot.

 

_Oh._

 

His tongue stilled. Her face flushed a pretty shade of red. The hem of her sleep shirt pooled around his thigh. Covered her mid-section. But he did not need to see in order to know. He could feel it. Her boy shorts. The soft cotton that separated her skin from his. They were damp in the center and warm against his upper thigh. He heard her audibly gulp.

 

He needed to do something. Her heartbeat rivalled his. He slithered into her mind. Distracted enough that her solid wall fell slightly. She was aroused. Slightly unnerved. He was a complete stranger to her. Potentially dangerous. And she was attracted to him. She had started to panic at this revelation.

 

 _Shit_.

 

He realized he had to move fast. He rushed his hand to the side of her face. She tried to jerk away. But he cradled her face. And pulled. Their foreheads collided. Her centre only pressed harder into his thigh. It only made her more anxious. Excited. Her short breaths warmed his lips. He had to concentrate. Hammered in on a specific word. Repeated it. A frantic prayer.

 

_Sleep._

 

She collapsed. Her face rested in the space between his neck and shoulder. Her nose smashed into his collarbone. He turned her face to the side so she could breathe with ease. But it caused her slightly parted lips to kiss the skin around at his throat. His body broke out into goose bumps.

 

He sighed. This was better. Everything was going too fast. He could feel her uncertainty. Even if it was hidden beneath her want. But now that she was asleep, he had another dilemma. One that was pinned against his stomach by the soft dip of her left hip. One that ached to be handled. It welcomed the warmth that her torso radiated. He groaned loudly.

 

He had to move her. Away from his oversensitive body. Gripped her shoulders to try to shift her off. She grumbled lamely. His entire body stilled. Prayed that she was still in deep sleep. One. Two. Three minutes passed.

 

He palmed her hips. Ignored how they fitted perfectly in his hands. Tried to lift her mid-section off his. She muttered something incoherently against his neck. He gently set her back down. He was back to square one. He was stuck. But he needed to do something.

 

So he pulsated his thighs. Anything to pull blood away from _it_. She stirred lightly. Her left hand fisted the hair by the nape of his neck. She puffed hot breathes against his neck. Her legs wrapped tighter around the sides of his left leg.

 

He was trapped. Attempted to free his caged knee. Wiggled it. But that motion made her hips thrust backwards and down his leg. Brushed her stomach across his _situation_. Cushion her center against the joint of his hips. He was in trouble.

 

He could feel the warmth of her center pressed. Covered only by her underwear. He tried to breathe. Only shaky breaths came out. He was a grown man of thirty-three but his body was in sensory overload. His dick twitched in solidarity.

 

_Ugh._

 

She deserved better than his lust.

 

_Filthy. Sullied. Dirty._

 

The temptation to claw at his skin flared. But her free arm wrapped around his side. Voluntarily. By her own will. As if she had detected his anger. As if to comfort him. Soothe his rage. She did not like it when he hurt himself.

 

He glanced down at her face. Strained his neck to peek at her. Her face rested in the crook between his neck and shoulder. Her warm breaths tickled his chest. She pinned his torso with hers. Laid flat on him. He crossed his forearms over her arms and placed them over the small of her back.

 

She burrowed deeper into him. He nuzzled her forehead with his left cheek. It warmed him. Physical contact had always strengthened the effects of the force.

 

_I don’t want to let you go. I’ll give you anything. Everything._

He peppered kisses on the top of her head. And watched her. Followed the rhythm of her chest. Felt her lungs expand and contract. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. As if he was scared she would still.

 

He could not cage her. Would not. Like how he trapped her the first night on the couch. How he manipulated her mind to bend. For his own satisfaction. He had given no thought to her that night. She deserved more.

 

He turned them to the side. Still pressed together. He shared his pillow with her. Their noses kissed. It soothed him. He studied her face. She looked younger in her slumber. The notion frightened him. He was almost ten years her senior. He was too old for her. She had abandonment issues. He had taken advantage of that. She would never let him stay once she knew everything

 

_But she was his everything._

 

He groaned. He could be selfish. Never leave. Stay here forever. Never let her go. Or he could be leave. His heart seized. Every part of his body ached. But he knew what he had to do. She deserved someone better.

 

A tear escaped rolled down his face. The wetness surprised him. He started to laugh. It turned into quiet sobs. He moulded his hand to the back of her head. Their foreheads touched. Her lips so close to his. He breathed her in. Then he closed his eyes. Placed his lips on her still ones. A chaste kiss.

 

Rey woke to the shrill of her alarm and an empty bed. The pile of ripped clothes outside her door was gone. He was not in the washroom. The cup by the toilet had disappeared. The blanket laid exactly where she last placed it. Her chest tightened.

 

He was not there. All evidence of him had disappeared. She ran back to her bedroom. Pressed her nose into the futon. But all she smelled was herself. Sprinted back to the bathroom. Her only towel hung neatly on the towel rod. It was dry to the touch.

 

_He was real._

 

“He was real,” she whispered.

 

Her eyes filled with angry tears. She did not understand why. Did not understand this pain. It ached throughout her body. They were only together for three nights. It was as if he was a dream. But she knew that he was real.

 

Days turned into weeks. She searched for him. But she knew nothing of him.

 

_Was he cold? Did he find another home?_

 

Weeks turned into months. One. Two. Three mouths. Noting. The pain morphed into a dull throbbing.

 

A knock startled her. Stilled her mind. She wiped at her wet eyes. The sound turned into pounding. The doorknob rattled.

_Openopenopen._

**Author's Note:**

> So this is heavily inspired by the Kylo Ren that Avdal has created for "Under Skies You Could Drown In" and loosely inspired by the manga "Kimi Wa Pet" after reading a post on Tumblr.


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